end of the line

The dilapidated street car shuddered on the tracks with the faint but unmistakable shriek of metal grating on metal and lurched forward. I wanted to turn to someone else to ask if this could even be possible, but nobody else was with me. In the back of my mind there was something that refused to believe it was happening. If you stand still for a moment, all of this will stop - you'll see, it told me.

It did not stop, and the car was gaining speed, careening madly into the forest. Tree trunks and branches scraped against the side of the car and battered the windows. I made my way over to the door, which was flapping open and shut with the momentum of the turns. I thought about jumping out for a moment but as I did a large tree hurtled by within inches of my face and I reconsidered.

Instead I made my way back to the front of the empty car and tried to see what was ahead through the tangles and brambles that covered the tracks. Only two things seemed clear: that wherever I was going was not like anything I had ever seen before, and it was very unlikely that I would ever return.
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Photograph taken at the Trolley Graveyard. Image and text by Matthew Christopher of Abandoned America